


Negative Space

by Katbelle



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Getting Back Together, Imaginary Friends, Light Angst, Post-Season/Series 02, References to Illness, Senses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 10:27:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6514402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katbelle/pseuds/Katbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He never truly realized, just how much <em>space</em> Foggy took up in his life and just how much everything around Matt was connected to him, how much in tune Matt's senses were with everything <em>Foggy</em>.</em>
</p><p>Matt can't go a day without something reminding him of Foggy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Negative Space

**Author's Note:**

> Exam hell is upon me, being a lawyer is horrible, 0/10, would not recommend. This is a quick fill for [this prompt](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/7552.html?thread=15540096#cmt15540096) at the kink meme and not a part of my "Let's Make Post-S2 World Even Angstier" Initiative. That's still upcoming.

**Negative Space**

He never truly realized, just how much _space_ Foggy took up in his life and just how much everything around Matt was connected to him, how much in tune Matt's senses were with everything _Foggy_.

***

And then he left.

***

The worst part is the smell.

***

The first time it happens, he's in a shop. He's in a _shop_ , of all places, because even currently unemployed broken lawyers who spend most of their time beating people up need food. And there's nothing in his apartment, the fridge is completely empty and has been for at least a week. He just forgot about it, forgot about food and forgot about eating, because there was a gang that he was tailing and because Foggy wasn't there to remind him.

But now the gang's been busted up, most of its members are in jail, some are in a hospital, and Matt's fridge is still empty. So. A shop. He puts on his civilian clothes for the first time in over a week, locks up his apartment and goes shopping, like normal people do.

He's not normal.

He's standing in front of a fridge in the shop, holding a cup of yoghurt in hand and trying to figure out what flavour it is without having to ask anyone for help. He doesn't want to draw attention to himself. He could ask, of course, but then he'd have to face sympathy and well-meaning people asking about his bruises or busted lip and that's... No. Not good. 

He used to order online, and when he forgot — as he sometimes did, because even before Daredevil he was still Matt Murdock — Foggy used to take him shopping, used to tell him all the flavours and describe the ridiculous packaging and laugh.

He's standing in front of a fridge in the shop, mulling over that one yoghurt, when it hits him. He takes a breath and smells it, vanilla and raspberry body wash, delicate and sweet, the one that Foggy preferred. It hits him and takes his breath away, and for a moment it's almost like he's in their office in the morning, with Foggy there and laughing and flipping his still-wet hair. But he's not and _that_ thought hits him the moment the girl does, just slams into him, collides with his body and makes him drop the damn yoghurt.

"Fuck!" the girl curses. "Watch where you're standing, asshole!"

She doesn't spare him a look, doesn't care about the glasses or the cane. She's carrying three bottles of beer and the scent of Foggy's body wash, and she's young, a kid, so a fake ID must be an accessory.

Matt drops to his knees to pick up the yoghurt he dropped and by some miracle the cup didn't break. Matt puts it back into the fridge and slides its door closed. Forget about the shopping and the yoghurt and food. He's not in the mood for standing in a queue nor for making small talk nor for eating.

For a second there he thought Foggy would walk up behind him, with a smile in his voice, and would tell him that he picked blueberry again, he doesn't even like blueberry, and that there's a lion on the lid now, you're lucky you can't see it, it's _hideous_ , Matt.

"Can I help you, sir?" someone asks him and Matt shakes his head.

With the problem he has no one can help and help with the shopping he doesn't want.

***

"You should take better care of yourself, Matt."

He almost drops the helmet then and there because that's _Foggy's_ voice, but there isn't anyone in his apartment. There hasn't been anyone in his apartment since the night he and Elektra left it, and he hasn't spoken to anyone since he told Karen about Daredevil — grunting at lowlifes didn't count. And that was _months_ ago, that all happened months ago, he hasn't spoken to Foggy for _months_ , hasn't seen him or heard his voice...

He's hearing voices. Either he's going more crazy than he already was or that kick to the head that he took two days ago did more damage than he thought.

"You're tired," non-Foggy says. The voice comes from the general direction of Matt's armchair, but there's no one there. Just empty space where Foggy used to sit. "You shouldn't be going out, not in this state. You'll make mistakes."

"I'm fine," Matt grits out and feels ridiculous. "And you're not real."

Non-Foggy ignores him. "When was the last time you ate?" he asks instead. Matt ignores him in return. "Oh, right. Two days ago, that horrible porridge. Really, Matt?"

"That's not true."

"Of course it is," non-Foggy says gently. "I only know as much as you do."

Matt grits his teeth and puts the helmet on. "I am _not_ going insane," he announces.

"Never said you were."

***

The smell is terrible and scary.

***

Sometimes it's the smell of Foggy's favourite coffee that he notices.

He's walking down the street when the smell hits his nostrils and he has to stop and he has to turn to find the source. Sometimes he turns on his heel and trails that smell, traces it to the hands of a college girl strolling through New York with her friends, happy and carefree. He stops himself short of approaching her, but he stands a few paces behind her, breathes in and tries to remember the order Foggy used to place to get a cup of this coffee goodness.

Sometimes it's not coffee. Sometimes it's the smell of Foggy's cologne.

He goes in for an interview, to a legal clinic that took pity on him and called back. The boss is a nice enough man, well-spoken if a bit harsh, who seems impressed by the work Nelson & Murdock did while still together. He talks about the projects his clinic handles, the types of cases that usually come across the desks of his staff attorneys, the duties and responsibilities of his employees. It's all important, it's all relevant, this could be Matt's _job_ , but the only thing he can focus on is the cologne he's wearing, a smell that was comforting because it used to mean working with Foggy.

He gets the job. The pay is crap and the office is a repurposed closet, but a shit job is better than no job and Matt needs... He _needs_ , he needs something other than Daredevil and danger and hurt.

Sometimes it's not coffee and it's not Foggy's cologne. Sometimes it's the smell of _Foggy_.

The smell of his skin, his sweat, something that Matt got used to and got to know intimately, after years of living together and working together and being together, in almost all possible ways. It's a smell that Matt catches in the hallway of his apartment building a week after he starts working at the clinic. It blindsides him and he almost trips over his own feet in a hurry to get upstairs, because Foggy was _here_ , he _came_ , but no. Matt stops with a leg up halfway on his way to the first floor. That's the point where the scent disappears.

Foggy never came higher than the first floor. 

Matt tries not to let that knowledge crush him.

***

"You should go to bed," non-Foggy suggests.

Matt ignores him, electing to flip through his case notes one more time. It's not like the voice is _real_. It's not. Matt cannot hurt its feelings. It's not real and it's not a head trauma, and Matt doesn't think he's crazier than he was, which leaves only one option: his common sense finally rebelled and is now manifesting as Foggy's well-meaning, worried voice at the back of Matt's head. Which shouldn't surprise him, Foggy's served as his common sense and conscience for years before Matt lost him only to realize that.

"You need to make a good impression tomorrow," non-Foggy carries on. "It's your first case, you have to be in tip-top shape. You can't afford to lose this job, so please, Matt, just go to sleep."

"I need to be ready," Matt murmurs.

The real Foggy would have grabbed Matt's papers and taken them away. The one that lives in Matt's head only sighs. "Molly Brown, age twenty-six, accused of beating up her boyfriend with a frying pan. Claims his injuries were sustained in a bar fight. No reports of domestic violence, but neighbours say Gary Ellis has been sporting bruises ever since he moved in with her. You _know_ all of this."

"Oh yeah?"

Foggy would shrug. "I know it so you must too."

***

Forget the smell, that's not terrible and scary.

The worst part is the sound.

***

Matt stammers and then falls silent as they exit the courtroom, Molly Brown sentenced to one year in prison for a third degree assault. It's a win, one that Matt should be happy about, but can't, _can't_ , because just down the hall is _Foggy_.

It's not something Gary Ellis can hear, but Matt's hearing is spectacular so he can easily pick Foggy's voice out from all this noise. The sound of his voice, wry and clear. The sound of his heartbeat, loud and strong and something Matt could never lose, not even if wanted to (but will never, ever want to).

He's here for a hearing, with a client and with Marci, and he sounds... happy. Maybe not over-the-top, but content enough. Satisfied with what he's doing, what he's here for.

Matt's not going to ruin this for him by coming over.

"You should get going," the Foggy that lives in his head says, whisper-soft. "There are still some formalities you need to go over with Gary."

He's right, of course. Always has been, because Foggy has always been the voice of reason. Matt smiles at Gary Ellis, then, and leads him in the exact opposite direction from where Foggy's voice coming.

***

But it's not only that. It'd be a blessing if this were only _that_.

***

Fran's niece comes to stay with her in early June.

Matt doesn't mind. He doesn't mind young people period, and yes, he does realize how that makes him sound, a twenty-eight-year-old saying "young people" as if he were at least twice his own age, but Matt _is_. He is older, he's much, much older because of all he sees and all he does and because of everyone he doesn't have.

Fran's niece is almost a decade younger than he is, closer in age to Foggy's sister than anyone else Matt knows. She likes baking vegan muffins, watches too much NCIS and is in love with Taylor Swift. The two weeks that Laurel spend with her great-aunt leave Matt with a better knowledge of Taylor Swift's entire discography than he would have ever wanted.

But it's not until the last Sunday that Laurel spends in New York that it happens.

After two weeks straight of listening to nothing but Taylor Swift Matt's _sure_ he's heard it all, that's it, nothing can surprise him now. Even the songs that did make him feel something at the beginning have been played on repeat so much that they've lost whatever emotional charge they had. 

And then comes the Sunday. Fran's out, visiting a friend, and Laurel the niece is left alone in the apartment. The door barely closes behind Fran when Laurel starts blasting her idol from the speakers at the maximum volume.

Matt sighs and resigns himself to not getting anything done. He closes his files and puts them on the coffee table. He stretches on the couch and settles in more comfortably, closes his eyes and drapes his arm over them. After two weeks he's developed a slight appreciation for Ms. Swift as well, so might as well lean back and enjoy the concert.

And really, that should have been all. 

But then a new song starts playing. One that makes Matt sit back up.

Laurel is clearly listening to a live recording, some of the words are muffled by the audience screaming, but he... nonetheless he... He _knows_ this song. He doesn't know where _from_ , exactly. He's never heard this version, he's sure of that, but he _knows_. The song, the lyrics, the tune. He knows the hollow feeling that accompanies it, the broken and lost feeling, as if he was missing a vital part of himself.

( _Grief_ , he thinks, _that's grief_.)

When the song ends Matt's sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees and pretends that his sofa and his apartment aren't as empty as they are in reality.

"It makes me want to cry," he says out loud, into the emptiness around him, "and I don't know why."

"You do," non-Foggy says.

Matt can just about imagine Foggy, the real Foggy, pacing the room. Foggy would notice that Matt's sad. He would perch on the sofa's armrest and put a hand on Matt's shoulder. After Matt didn't shrug it off, he would slid onto the couch next to him, get closer and closer until their shoulders bumped. Then he would put an arm around Matt and let Matt lay his head on his shoulder.. He would let them stay like that as long as it took.

It still wouldn't have been long enough.

It never was.

"Do I?" Matt asks.

"I know it so you must as well." Matt imagines a warm note of humour in the non-existent voice that he's also imagining. "This is the song that played when we first met."

***

The sound is terrible and scary but forget the sound.

The worst part is the _touch_.

 

***

No, not even that. It's the _lack_ of it.

***

The worst part is that there isn't an arm to hold when he walks to work. The first few weeks Matt expects it to be there, expects to turn and have Foggy by his side, reaches out to grab an arm that just isn't there.

There's no one to help him and no one to guide him. Sure, Matt doesn't _need_ that, he can survive without, but it's never been about need. It's been about help, about the ability, about having the possibility for when it became needed. It was about having someone to rely on when his head was killing him, when he was tired, when he was sick, when his senses were scrambled and he couldn't rely on them as much as he usually did. It was about not having to rely on his senses as much because there was someone who could and would help.

No one could and no one would help him now.

But. More.

There's no one to fistbump him after a win, there's no one to draw him into a hug, no one to clasp his shoulder or bump him in the arm, no one to just hold him.

He talks to people now — the self-imposed period of silence is over due to having a job and colleagues and clients that he had to speak with — but he doesn't have friends. No one touches him, not even by accident when handing him files. No one--no one touches him with kindness. No one touches him with love.

Plenty of people touch him in anger and with the intent to kill, but that's not the type of touch that means anything.

There's space in Matt's life that's utterly empty now, a gaping hole in the fabric of Matt's life, a Foggy-shaped abyss that gazes at him and that Matt can't gaze back at.

***

"Your head hurts."

"I know."

"You shouldn't go out. You're coming down with a cold."

"I _know_ ," Matt hisses.

"But you will, because you know better," non-Foggy says and even as a figment of Matt's imagination he sounds disappointed.

"You're me, aren't you? You should know the answer to that."

"I know," non-Foggy says and Matt imagines he sighs.

***

Someone pushes him into the river and it's even less fun than when Frank did it. Matt takes a few mouthfuls of ice cold stinking water before he manages to climb out. He stumbles on his way home and for a second considers calling someone for help.

Hah. Ha ha ha, right. Matt chuckles mirthlessly. Even if his burner phone hadn't just taken a swim in the Hudson, he wouldn't have anyone to call. He hasn't spoken to Claire since that day at the hospital. Foggy... He hasn't spoken to Foggy in almost equally long.

Just gotta get yourself home, Matt. Just gotta get home and then you'll crash in your bed and you'll sleep and sleep and sleep.

***

"You really shouldn't have gone out," Foggy whispers at the back of Matt's head.

And he's right, he's right, he's right.

***

The touch is terrible and the lack of it is even worse.

***

He crashes in his bed and sleeps and sleeps and sleeps.

***

"Oh, Matt."

Matt hums in lieu of an answer. Wouldn't be able to say anything even if he wanted to, even if he had the strength. His throat is parched, must be swollen too, swallowing feels like forcing sandpaper down it. It hurts when he breathes.

"Go 'way," he murmurs eventually.

It sounds weaker than he'd like, his voice shakes. No. His whole _body_ is shaking, he's shivering, cold, cold cold _cold_ with the covers nowhere within reach.

Matt imagines a ghost of a touch across the back of his hand. Non-Foggy sighs but doesn't say anything, and Matt assumes he's gone. 

***

"You're an idiot," non-Foggy tells him the moment Matt opens his eyes. 

Well. "Tell me something I don't know."

"This was one of the dumbest decisions on the very long list of dumb decisions you've made," non-Foggy carries on. "You shouldn't have gone out sick."

Matt grimaces. "I know. You've already told me that."

"How's your fever?"

"You know how's my fever."

"Do I?"

"Of course. You're in my head. You know everything I do."

"Humour me," non-Foggy says, sounding annoyed. This is a whole new low, being able to annoy a figment of your imagination. At least it's acting in character. Foggy would be annoyed with him.

Matt think about his answer for a moment. He's silent as he focuses on his body, but the only thing he gets is _hurt_ and _hot_. "Better than before," is what he settles for. "But my senses are... I think they're fried."

"I figured."

Matt huffs out a small laugh. "You sound almost real, like I'm not imagining you. Must be sicker than I thought."

"Matt..."

Matt curls on himself. He grabs the hem of his duvet and pulls it up to his chin. "I miss Foggy," he says. "Real Foggy," adds, in case his brain interprets that as a bid for fancier hallucinations.

His private and completely made up version of Foggy is silent for a moment. Then a moment more. Eventually, he asks, quiet and soft, "Then why did you make him leave?"

What a stupid question that he asks himself over and over again, in a moment of weakness, when the pressing silence and emptiness are too much to bear, when his skin prickles with need, when his hand closes around empty air and not an arm.

"He got _shot_ , on top of having to deal with a case I talked him into taking."

"It's not exactly your fault he got shot," non-Foggy says. "And need I remind you, dumbass, Karen was equally vocal for taking the Castle case. You weren't the only one who did the talking into."

"But Karen was a secretary while I was his partner. It was my opinion, my vote, that counted. And I disappointed him. And then I--I couldn't even keep him safe. I couldn't keep anyone safe."

"And you thought pushing people out of your life _would_ keep them safe?" Non-Foggy sounds angry, which is fine, Matt's angry with himself enough to know how that feels. It's not surprising. "Keeping people in the dark is what gets them hurt. You honestly think that some bad guy will now look at your life and think, oh, they're not working anymore so obviously they mean nothing to each other? Foggy--Foggy cares about you and worries about you, and that's not going to go away just because you no longer talk to him. Thinking that could happen is fucking dumb."

Matt's small smile is half-hidden by the pillow. "That sounds like something Foggy would say."

"Yeah, well, that's because Foggy is smart as fuck and you're dumb as shit."

"Foggy doesn't swear like that."

"He does in his internal monologue," non-Foggy says quietly. "Now go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

***

That, of course, is a lie.

***

Matt wakes up warm and to an empty apartment and an empty life and an empty heart.

It shouldn't hurt — it's been like that for months, for _months_ , it's not _new_ , he's used to this — but it does.

He pulls the covers tighter around himself, buries his face in the pillow and tries not to cry.

***

The next time he wakes up, it's to a loud curse and the smell of scrambled eggs and the sound of humming. Not exactly in that order — and "humming" is a generous term — but it tells him that someone is in his apartment.

He can't pick them out by scent. Whoever it is — he knows who that is, he knows, he hopes — is a blank, smells like nothing at all and Matt knows that "nothing at all" means his own body wash and his own apartment and his own smell. But someone _is_ there, busy in the kitchen, humming, cooking.

Matt throws the covers off and sits up. His head is killing him.

"There's a glass of water and some aspirin on the bedside table," Foggy calls to him from the kitchen. Matt hesitates before reaching out and he breathes in relief when he finds a real glass there. Not imagining this, then. "Toasts and eggs will be ready in a moment."

Foggy brings it to him and rearranges things on the bedside table to fit a plate there. The smell of breakfast fills Matt's nostrils, but so does the smell of _Foggy_ , up this close. Just him, not his cologne, not his body wash or Matt's. Just Foggy.

"How..." Matt starts, but doesn't know how to finish.

"Fran called me," Foggy says, "said she hasn't seen you in a couple of days, got worried. And you never did ask me to give back my set of keys."

"Why are you here?"

"Because you're dumb as shit," Foggy says with a hint of well-natured mockery. "Because I care about you and worry about you, because I miss you too, and because your fridge was completely empty and I had to go grocery shopping for you. I could go on, but I think you get the picture."

"You were here. Before." And that's terrible and scary, because of the things Matt said, the things that were easy to think to himself but that he'd never tell Foggy out loud because he just didn't know how.

But that doesn't matter right now. Later, yes, but right now Foggy takes his hand and squeezes. "Yup. Not sure how I feel about being your imaginary friend, but hey, as long as I was the voice of reason."

It's all of it, Matt realizes. The smell of Foggy's skin, and the sound of his voice and his heart, and the feel of fingers wrapped around Matt's. The knowledge that he no longer feels just the absence, that the space around him is no longer defined by things that _aren't_ there. That. All of _that_. 

All of that is terrible and scary but is also the best part.

Matt closes his eyes and squeezes back.

And the abyss averts its gaze.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Tumblr](http://http://katbelleinthedark.tumblr.com)! Come say hi. :)


End file.
